In the long arms of night, cloaked by mist and whispering leaves, shadows danced behind the trail of Josh Aratat and his battalion. Spies from every corner of the empire had been tailing him since the inception of his venture—ghosts in the wild, unseen and unheard, but ever watching.
They kept a meticulous distance: not close enough to be discovered, yet never so far as to lose the path. A line of silent observers threading through the trees.
They had seen it all. The battle against the manticores—feral, nightmarish beasts with lion jaws and scorpion tails—unfolded before their eyes like a play wrought in blood and thunder. And then came the Manticore King, twice the size of the rest, his hide thick as siege walls, his roar shaking the stones beneath the mountain. To the hidden eyes, the encounter wasn't just a battle—it was a spectacle, the kind whispered about in taverns for decades.
"Old Gu, you too came? I thought you'd retired with that limp of yours," murmured Jeremy, one of Prince Jaden's most trusted spies, his voice like wind brushing through reeds. He crouched beside a thick-rooted tree, his cloak still damp from night dew.
Beside him, Gu Ron smirked without turning. His face was lined with decades of secrets and hard-earned wisdom, his eyes narrow with habit. "Retirement is for men with nothing left to see. I heard tales of the Black Dragon and couldn't resist. What he did to that manticore king… gods, I felt the hairs on my arms rise." He exhaled, as if releasing a weight. "If only the emperor could see what I saw... that man—the black dragon—is no mere warrior. I wonder what his true identity is behind that mask of his? He's a living weapon. A future pillar of the empire, if the court weren't so blind."
Around them, other spies hid among trees and boulders—each loyal to different masters, yet bound by a common awe. Though most were strangers to one another, the veterans recognized familiar silhouettes. In the spy world, experience had a scent of its own.
Suddenly, Jeremy tensed. "Shhhh. Look."
He pointed just as the first light of dawn teased the sky, turning the dark edges of the world into a soft blue canvas. Josh and his generals were on the move again, descending from the manticore mountain toward the forested valley below.
At the base of the manticore mountain, tied securely amidst thick undergrowth, stood their mounts—the Varnakian War Steeds. Towering, muscular creatures bred for battle, with coats like burnished iron and eyes that gleamed with firelight. These beasts cost a fortune: 1,400 Nazare Empire gold coins each. Thirteen stood ready, their breaths forming clouds in the morning chill.
They were initial fourteen horses in total, but the fourteenth was injured and sent back by Amia Ralia, and the total value of the horses plus the injured Varnakian steed was brought to the staggering sum of 19,600 gold coins. A small army's worth of coin in horses alone.
And then came the real prize.
From the depths of the manticore king's lair, Josh had unearthed the treasure trove of the manticore king, a treasure trove so vast, it staggered belief—a massive chest encrusted with bloodstones, overflowing with 60 million Nazare gold coins, not to mention rare jewels, enchanted gemstones, and ancient fruits said to grant vitality eternal. Some fruits shimmered as though kissed by moonlight, pulsing faintly with dormant energy.
They packed the fortune with the precision of a well-drilled legion, distributing it across the steeds so that no single mount bore the burden alone. Josh's trust in his men was absolute. Loyalty wasn't a demand—it was the marrow in their bones. (Death level Loyalists). These were warriors who would walk into hell with him and smile while doing it.
As the convoy began to ride, silence accompanied them—an unspoken reverence for the battle they'd just won and the destiny they now carried.
Then Josh halted. Without a word, he raised his hand, a sharp, commanding gesture. The entire unit obeyed instantly, reigning in their steeds. His boots hit the earth as he dismounted with fluid grace. Something had stirred his senses.
His generals followed, eyes sharp and bodies tense. Relia Amia, her fingers dancing to the hilt of her curved blade. Lola, scanning the horizon with the instincts of a panther. They had learned long ago—Josh didn't spook easily. If he stopped, if his jaw clenched and his shoulders straightened like that, danger wasn't far. They spread out slightly, battle stances unfolding like a flower of steel.
Somewhere, the wind shifted. Leaves rustled—not with the gentle greeting of the breeze, but with movement.
And in the thick veil of morning mist, the spies lingered like shadows stitched to the earth, unmoving but watchful, their eyes gleaming through leaves and darkness. The forest held its breath with them. Not a bird chirped. Not a branch creaked. Only the soft snort of the Varnakian steeds and the muted crackle of dew-laced leaves beneath war boots marked the slow passage of time.
Then came Josh Aratat's voice—sharp, commanding, rippling through the silence like a thunderclap just before the storm.
"You better come out… or my next attack will not spare your life."
He didn't shout. He roared. His voice sliced through the trees and struck the air with the chill of death itself.
The generals froze for just a heartbeat before swiftly turning toward the direction Josh had faced. In one fluid motion, weapons unsheathed—swords, axes, spears. Even Amia Ralia's eyes narrowed as she pulled her dagger, its blade catching the morning light like a flash of warning.
Josh took a step forward, the earth crunching beneath his black boots. His gloved hand moved to adjust the raven-black mask that framed the lower half of his face—an emblem of mystery and fear. The glint in his eye was not of uncertainty but of measured violence waiting to be unleashed.
"I won't repeat myself."
His voice dropped lower now, like a growl from a slumbering beast disturbed too soon.
And then—rustling. Uneasy, trembling rustling.
A thin man emerged, barely older than a boy, his robes too fine for travel, too clean for war. His legs wobbled with each step, and his voice cracked like brittle wood.
"P-please… spare me. I-I'm only a messenger… for Prince Alloysius."
He fell to his knees, both hands high in the air, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.
Another stumbled out of the brush, this one older, with a leather scroll pouch slung across his shoulder.
"I represent the regional lord of Region Eight… please, I beg for mercy…"
And then another…
And another.
"Lord Jaden's envoy…"
"Envoy of High Council Elder, Remuel…"
One by one, they emerged, cloaks damp with dew, boots muddied, faces pale. Some bore emblems sewn subtly into their collars—hidden marks of the noblemen or factions they served. Spies, messengers, informants… tools of the powerful. By the time the last one stepped forward, the line stretched like a crooked parade of fear and desperation—fifty in all.
Josh said nothing at first. His eyes, dark as a stormfront, swept over them like a tide. He didn't hide his feelings—there was anger in the set of his jaw, curiosity flickering behind narrowed eyes, and a weary kind of disbelief weighing down his shoulders.
His generals didn't speak either. They stood behind him like ancient statues, unmoving and unreadable, the mist curling around their legs as if even the morning air knew to tread lightly.
Josh tilted his head ever so slightly.
"Fifty tongues, and none brave enough to speak first?"
His voice was low now, quiet, but it echoed through the clearing like a judgment pronounced.
"Very well… Who among you wants to speak before I start to beat down heavily on you guys?"
And as the wind stirred the leaves, and the morning sun bled golden light through the trees, the gathered spies looked at one another—silent, terrified—hoping someone else would break first.